


Position Occupied

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:52:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was too much to ask for things to be as they had been, and yet every day Sherlock thought of it. He thought of what were now the good old days, when it had always been just he and John, before all the death faking and marriage and now, assassin wives. </p><p>But what was he now, after two years? It certainly seemed apparent that John didn't care anywhere near as much for Sherlock as he did John. It was to be expected. Who loved a sociopath?</p><p>Who would care?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Position Occupied

_"Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"_

Sherlock stared at the television hard, even it he'd already memorized the looping, distorted image that seemed to have hijacked every live screen nation wide, the warping voice.

 _"Did you miss me?"_  

"Not particularly," he muttered, sitting back in his chair. 

"Sorry?" John asked, leaning in his old reading chair. Mary perched on the arm rest. 

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. His thoughts were chaos.

In the back of his mind, there was a crazed Moriarty reeking havoc on the lower floors, unchained, desperate, laughing at Sherlock's ignorance, at his stupidity. Even now, he wasn't positive as to how Moriarty had survived. Bullet blanks were not an option; the short distance would have meant death anyways, regardless of material. Could it have been a fake Moriarty? Could the gun have faked a shot so well?

Perhaps he wasn't alive at all?

 He groaned in frustrated, making John roll his eyes as Mary smirked. Once Sherlock had appreciated that look; he had respected her wit in the face of John's seriousness. He had liked the way she was his partner, because she was so similar to himself.

But of course, he knew better than that now. They weren't the same, or were they? Weren't they both murderers, in the end?

He sprang up, beginning to pace around the flat in agitation, looping around John's reading chair five times before John finally extended a leg to stop Sherlock from wearing a trench into 221B. 

"Can't figure how he did it?" John asked, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"Too many options, not enough data. I don't even know what happened to Moriarty's body after he shot himself in the head, I had to get out of the country so fast..." Sherlock hazarded a glance at the couple within his flat, at John with his calm, crisis dealing demeanor and Mary with her sharp eyes and steady hands. 

He turned and swallowed, remembering the sensation of being ripped in two, remembering the darkness and uncertainty of death and the promised pain of life. He refused to be afraid, and he refused to forgive.

He had meant what he'd told John; Mary loved him. She would have wanted to spare him the pain of losing Sherlock a second time. But Sherlock had omitted the fact that he had indeed died on that operation table. There was always the lingering suspicion, or perhaps _fear_ that Mary would have known that too. It was mere chance that he'd come back to life (mere chance of his mind conjuring up a good reason to stay). If she had wanted to incapacitate him, she could have hit many more, less fatal, places. 

But he kept his mouth shut for once, and his mind numb, because John chose her, and the thing that Sherlock treasured most in the world was John's happiness. He'd take a bullet for that any day. 

He'd take a bullet for the both of them. John for obvious reasons, but Mary... Mary had the child. Sherlock wasn't sure how he'd react in the event that she wasn't carrying John's flesh and blood. He wasn't one to get over getting shot in the chest easily. 

But Moriarty was clever. Sherlock could jump in front of the guns of a hundred serial killers, a thousand little bank robbers, but if Moriarty was back it meant that they were no longer safe. John would be a target once more. Every one he'd ever cared for would have a cross hare on their forehead, and what if Moriarty wanted more than Sherlock's life this time? What if he wanted John's? 

What if he realized his mistake, his inexplicable act of mercy? 

Moriarty had given Sherlock a choice between his friends life and his own. Even if he hadn't had a plan to survive the fall, the choice would have been an easy one. He would have chosen to save them, of course he would. Much less suffering. 

Death was nothing, an abyss. No love, no laughter and no pain. 

Life without John, life without Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade...

Moriarty had given him the option of reprieve. The game had been kinder two years ago. What if Moriarty wanted it all, took and murdered his heart? 

Sherlock couldn't even fathom it. He could feel a sick, dark feeling rising in his chest at the mere thought of it. He shoved the it back into Moriarty's empty cell, in the base of his ruined palace. 

He needed to talk to Mycroft. He would have the answers, or he would have the data that Sherlock needed in order to find them. 

He emerged from his mind palace, the first thing that registered a persistent banging, like the door. It most likely was. 

The doorbell no longer worked.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called. "Mycroft is here to see you!" 

He could hear her moving up the stairs, until she poked her head into the flat.

"Where's John?" he asked, glancing around. He avoided looking at the old reading chair, purposefully boring his eyes into the smiley face on his wall. He always felt tired when he looked at it, tired and sad. 

"John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding half surprised and half... Morose? Regretful? Pitying? "John and Mary left hours ago." she said softly. "Went back to their place for dinner."

"I see," Sherlock muttered, sliding his phone out as Mrs. Hudson made her way back downstairs to open the door. The time was ten pm. He had been up in his mind palace for almost seven hours. 

He checked the local news, finding only article after article about Moriarty's mass hijacking. He rolled his eyes at the few that highlighted the governments desperate scrambling for a cover up, the flimsy reassurances to the public that it would certainly never happen again. 

The looping video of _Did you miss me?_ had broadcasted for three hours straight.

Sherlock looked up only when a sharp knock came from in front of him, Mycroft tapping his umbrella on the open door.

"I suppose you're glad to not be taking up a suicide mission." Mycroft said by way of greeting. He sat down in John's chair and Sherlock quickly masked his contemptuous grimace. 

"You're government is in embarrassed shambles." Sherlock snapped back, continuing to scroll through the last five hours of news. "Thank you for that, by the way."

"I thought you'd prefer death to life in incarceration." Mycroft replied huffily, crossing and uncrossing his legs like he did when agitated. "Besides, there was another base located five miles away from your drop off point that would have taken you to a small, wifi enabled island country where you would live out the rest of your days alive and relatively free." 

"What wonderful options."

"You killed a man, Sherlock. A man with many people on his side." 

"You've killed hundreds Mycroft, it doesn't matter who's pulling the trigger. That man had people under his thumb, not on his side. He needed to die."

"For what, then?" Mycroft scoffed, seeming to have decided on crossed legs. 

"His mind palace." Sherlock growled, enjoying the realization flash upon Mycroft's face. "There were never any real files. It was all a mental database, and it was all unique. No other copies." 

Mycroft looked grudgingly satisfied. "I see." He stared at Sherlock with perpetually condescending eyes. Sherlock hated the way he made him feel like a child. "Well, enough on that. We have a larger problem."

"Moriarty has returned."

"Are you pleased?" Mycroft asked.

"Can't deduce the answer?" Sherlock shot back. He relented after a moment. "No, I'm not." he admitted, fingers tapping against the armrests. Images of snipers and John flew across his mind. 

"Because of John."

"Because of all of them," Sherlock snapped, knowing Mycroft's ideas pertaining to his feelings towards John. "I can't protect them all. This game costs too much."

"You used to say that's what made it interesting," Mycroft remarked, raising an eyebrow. "My, my, has sentiment finally gotten to you?"

"Have the pastries finally gotten to your stomach?" Sherlock lashed out, smiling when Mycroft's mouth tugged down. He scanned his brother, realizing that he had indeed gained some weight. He'd also gained a new tie pin.

Silver. Not very expensive, something that Mycroft certainly wouldn't buy for himself. His parents always got presents that were ridiculous and unpractical (he had given all of those sweaters to John). A tie pin was too subtle for them. Anthea never gave Mycroft gifts; too personal for their strictly business relationship. And it was of the oddest figure, a silver fox shaped pin... 

Oh. Well then.

"No more ice man?" Sherlock asked, eyes sparkling. Mycroft's entire face slid into a mask, even while the hand holding his precious umbrella flexed restlessly. "I suppose we're both changing." 

"How so?" Mycroft replied tightly. 

"I've decided something about relationships," Sherlock said evasively, standing up as if to go into the kitchen. He stopped next to where Mycroft was seated, amused. "And you... Well, I never would have pegged you for gay. George Lestrade? Really?"

"It's _Greg._ " Mycroft snapped before he could stop himself. "And my affairs with him are none of your business."

"Affairs indeed," Sherlock nearly sang, setting the kettle to boil. "But really, Mycroft? After all those Sunday school classes."

"They didn't seem to do you much good." Mycroft growled, standing up, his nose pointed defiantly high. 

"I don't know what you mean." Sherlock said, not looking at his brother. 

"I imagine you must hate Mary even more now that she's blown a hole in you." Mycroft carried on. "Although it's hard to say," 

"Don't make this about me." Sherlock snapped, sitting down in front of his microscope. He found himself staring aimlessly at a sample of mold. " _Greg_ Lestrade, of all people?" 

"He is competent, loyal, and not entirely dull. I'd expect you to understand. We do seem to take to the same kind of goldfish, Sherlock." He could hear the smirk in Mycroft's voice. "Only difference between the two of us is that I wasn't afraid to keep mine. Goldfish do tend to have such short attention spans."

"I don't know what you mean." Sherlock repeated, pointedly adjusting the already perfect focus of the microscope. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm busy."

Mycroft sighed dramatically. "At least tell me that you'll sort out this Moriarty business so I have something to tell the others. They aren't exactly satisfied with your four minute exile." 

"I'll sort out this Moriarty business." Sherlock said, still not looking at his brother. If he did, his eyes would give him away. They always did. Bright eyes, so easy to read. It was the dark ones that were troublesome. Moriarty's soulless black eyes seemed to stare at him when he closed his eyes. "Now get out."

"Don't mess up," Mycroft said before leaving, his proper, uniform footsteps receding down the stairs. Sherlock waiting for the door to close before he allowed himself to get up and flop hopelessly onto the sofa.

He hated it when Mycroft used John against him, especially if it was his feelings he was using. It wasn't as if he'd asked to love him. In fact, love had taken exactly three months to invade his mind palace, to hack his hard drive until there was a permanent room in the center of his being in which he hoarded jumpers and games of cluedo and midnight chases and shared meals across small tables. He had known, for so long. 

Mycroft had been right. He'd been a coward, and now he was alone. Alone, and it was too late.

Sherlock thought back to Magnussen, all those pressure points, and his had obviously been John.

John's had been Mary.

Mary's pressure point was John.

It was too much to ask for things to be as they had been, and yet every day Sherlock thought of it. He thought of what were now the good old days, when it had always been just he and John, before all the death faking and marriage and now, assassin wives. 

But what was he now, after two years? It certainly seemed apparent that John didn't care anywhere near as much for Sherlock as he did John. It was to be expected. Who loved a sociopath?

Magnussen had deduced that Mycroft's pressure point was Sherlock, but Sherlock had a feeling that it had changed to one Greg Lestrade. 

So really, who out there now would feel tortured if he were to die? He'd expect tears, of course. John, probably. Maybe even from Mary, or Lestrade. Definitely Mrs. Hudson. But everybody would be able to recover within a couple months time. They had their own pressure points to cry over.

Sherlock knew his current train of thought was dangerous, unhealthy. Frankly, it had become something he'd begun to think about quite often. John's therapist would have told Sherlock that he was depressed, possibly on the autism spectrum, and had serious self-esteem issues. Rubbish, of course. Everything Sherlock was thinking was fact in his mind. He wasn't the type to be missed in death, was he? Not anymore.

 

Those thoughts costed him. Specifically, they cost him a good dress shirt.

"Stop you're _bloody_ mouth." John almost yelled, arms flailing out in his fury. They swatted Sherlock's hot tea right into his lap, the few milliliters left pooling onto his once pristine white shirt. 

"John," Sherlock complained, trying for a joke. "Really, John—"

"Don't _tell me I'm over reacting._ " John growled, his voice growing dangerously soft. He had been pacing, but now he turned and pointing at Sherlock, blue eyes bright and angry and sparkling with something he knew neither of them would ever acknowledge. "If you _ever..._ "

"I'm not the type to kill myself." Sherlock said dryly, even as his treacherous emotions did flips in the halls of his mind palace at the idea that John _cared_ so much. "I didn't mean it—"

"And how exactly did you mean it then?" John snapped, pacing once more. _"Nobody'll care if I'm gone, not like it'd matter much,"_ John hissed, quoting Sherlock's rather unfortunate slip of the tongue. 

They had been discussing plans on infiltrating a building that was supposedly where Sebastian Moran was hiding, Moriarty's old second in command. Sherlock had, rather tactlessly, volunteered himself to stay behind in the event that the security system shut down and manual override of the doors needed a physical presence to stay behind, pressing the metaphorical button. 

Sherlock sighed, standing up and walking over to his friend. This was one of those times he was supposed to do the emotional reasoning. In his mind it was the ultimate oxymoron. 

"You know it's true." he started, grabbing John by the arm and making him look at his face straight on. "Pressure points and all that business. Either way, have you even considered that you have Mary and your _child_ to come back to? You are necessary to them. I... In the even that I died it would only cause minor emotional distress for a short period of time and then people would be able to get on with life. Better we destroy Moran, Moriarty, or the both of the, even if I go down as well." 

Somewhere in his speech, Sherlock realized, they had started talking about the hypothetical. It was, of course, true to any situation, but he had never discussed any of this with John. It had always seemed fairly obvious.

He relinquished his grasp once it seemed like John wouldn't move. He plowed on, disregarding the dangerous look in John's eyes. Even so, he spoke fast.

"So again with the manual override. I already have in my possession a model of one of the security officer's palm print. The system monitors a human pulse, heat, and the print. It will open the triggered door, but it will only stay open as long as all factors remain. The only way to lock the door open would be to input the ten digit code that is changed daily. There will be no way for us to acquire it, and therefore I would—"

" _Stop._ " John ordered, raising a hand as if he was going to point at Sherlock, or strike him. Sherlock could imagine him as a Captain. It did odd things to him; he almost smiled inappropriately. "Just, stop talking. Sherlock, do you—" he broke off, a frustrated noise escaping him. "Do you understand, what you dying again would do to me. Forget Mrs. Hudson, or your brother, Lestrade, do you know what it'd do to _me?_ " 

John's eyes were dark and thunderous and they caught Sherlock in their swirl of emotions and refused to let him go. 

He thought for only a second before answering. "I think you would be sad. That you might cry, would mourn. Last time it was more than a year. I would hypothesize under these circumstances that you would only need to take a few months to get that over with. Half a year at most."

John stared at him for a moment before releasing a desperate sounding, derisive laugh, something both exasperated and mad. He turned away from Sherlock, strode away, and then turned again sharply like he marching, words at the ready.

"You know I'm not good at this." John accused him, breath harsh. "But you... You have to understand that there are two people in the world that I care most about and one of them is you, Sherlock, and I _cannot_ lose you." 

Sherlock felt a pang somewhere in the his emotionally unstable heart. 

"Wrong," he said softly, watching his fingers skitter against each others' finger pads. 

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"Your statement is false." Sherlock proposed, his mind shuffling the data into the neat format of a scientific experiment. He wasn't sure whether it was to aid his mind or guard his heart. "You would be able to afford losing me. You would still have Mary, soon the child."

"That is not the point." 

"It is. I have you." Sherlock stated, catching John's eyes in his own. "You are all. After that there is no one else as a 'pressure point.' There are certainly people I care about, but then, there are people I'd kill for." 

He could feel the cold of the gun in his hand, the flash of a bang, the thump of a library collapsing in on itself, set on fire and destroyed. He could see the blinding lights of the helicopters through his closed eye lids. The heavy dread of his actions still resided in his chest.

He had a feeling John was remembering the same scene. John was breathing harshly. His expression had softened.

"Sherlock," he sighed, looking tired and sad. Sherlock wondered what he'd said to put that expression on his face. "You don't know what losing you a second time would do to me."

"You would get over it," Sherlock answered flippantly, looking away. 

"Would you get over me, if I died?" John snapped harshly, and Sherlock almost flinched. 

"No I wouldn't." he answered quietly, trying to read John's thoughts through his dark blue eyes. "But that's the difference between you and I. If I died, you would mourn me." he paused, and John didn't contradict him. Somewhere in the general vicinity of his heart ached.

 "In the event that you die," Sherlock continued, blinking hard at the thought. "I would follow you."

Silence stretched and stilled with that statement. Sherlock wondered why John wasn't saying anything, but he didn't particularly feel like continuing the conversation either. Perhaps John was in shock. He had just told him that he'd most likely commit suicide in the event of his death. 

Bit more than the heart to heart John had been aiming for.

 _"Sherlock,"_ John breathed after a while. He was staring at Sherlock like he'd never really seen him before. He cleared his throat. "I never realized you cared so much."

"I care a great deal." Sherlock admitted. It was one of the reasons Mycroft believed he, the iceman, was superior. "It never shows."

"Yeah," John said, looking slightly out of it. He gathered himself. "But you do realize you're not allowed to... To do that thing you said you would."

"Kill myself?" Sherlock replied, and John flinched. 

"Yes." John fidgeted where he stood. "You absolutely cannot. I forbid it. You..." he sighed in frustration, locking Sherlock in his gaze. "You have so much to offer the world. Don't ruin that over some dead army doctor."

"I hardly have anything to offer the world. And if I did, I think the world wouldn't want it." Sherlock murmured, the feeling of John's closeness accompanied by the almost constant twinge of nostalgia, of the longing for life as it had been before the fall. "You should know the state I was in before I met you. Lestrade did his best, but if I had wanted to do anything he wouldn't have been able to stop me. I was tired," he admitted, remembering long nights and boring cases and the constant, incessant abuse thrown his way from the moment he stepped out of the flat. 

"You can only get called freak so many times before you start believing it." he continued, watching John's expression harden. "And I can tell you without a doubt that had I not met you, today I would either be two things; a criminal, or a dead man." John's gaze suddenly turned too bright, too intense for him. He made to turn away, speaking as he did. "I'm afraid there'd be nothing to stop me from joining the ranks of men like Moriarty were I to lose you." he stated. "I think I'd be better off dead, don't you?"

"No."

An arm reached out and stopped him from escaping into the kitchen, swinging him back around by the arm. John secured him to the spot; eyes sharpened like a captain's. "I don't think you are." he told Sherlock firmly, leaning in so he couldn't possibly avoid his eyes. "I think you're much too good for them."

The events that occurred after only really took up ten seconds. Less than 0.0000001% of his current life span. And yet, his mind palace had an entire corridor for it. He hazarded that it took up one fifth of the place that supposedly stored away a good portion of his life.

More accurately, he supposed, his John-era.

And this moment was the golden age.

He didn't have time to think, didn't have time to so much as move. One moment he was staring into John's hard blue eyes and the next his eyes had closed, and there was warmth, slick and unfamiliar and completely _welcome_ on his mouth, and he tasted the kitchen's tea mixed with a hint of chocolate and mint and something he labeled _John_. Everything was fast moving and too much; he was feeling fifty sensations at the same time and his mind was desperately trying to catalogue every bit of data while his heart just wanted to melt himself into John so they'd never have to be apart, so that he would have him forever.

But John was married. His old chair sat cold and abandoned only centimeters away. He was married to a freelance assassin who had shot him in the chest. Sherlock had covered for her just to make him happy.

And then Sherlock was being backed up until he was flat against the walls, trapped between the cool wallpaper and a warm body, all thoughts of the real world flying out the window. He could feel a hand burying itself behind his head, tugging at his curls, John leaning into him as he stood on the ends of his feet. Sherlock experimentally curled his palm over the back of John's neck and John breathed something that sounded like a faint version of his name.

The real world had never seemed more _boring._  

John was trailing kisses down his jawline when he froze, hands completely stopping their small movements in his hair, breathing stilled. He pressed one last, lingering kiss at the side of Sherlock's neck, right where his pulse thrummed under his skin, and then stepped back, staring at Sherlock with those large, dark blue eyes. 

Sherlock blinked back at him, and for once, he could think of nothing to say that would stop him from leaving.

The real world had never seemed so cruel. Because Sherlock knew this was an impossibility, he could almost feel that alternate reality, the closed door in the future. He couldn't look back at what they had been and imagine what could have been; it hurt too much. It was all too late.

"Thought you said you weren't gay." Sherlock said quietly, the ghost of a joke in his tone.

"I'm not," John replied, looking at him like he couldn't quite get a grasp. "I've never liked men like I have you." he looked down and away like he was nervous, his short hair just covering his eyes at the angle. "Then again, you're so much more than a man." his voice was ironic, and sad. He looked back at Sherlock, like he was a puzzle he didn't want to solve.

"Mary," Sherlock said, hating to say it.

"We can't do this." John's fingers combed an agitated line through his hair and Sherlock followed them with his eyes.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes."

Sherlock held his gaze for a while longer. When John finally turned away, all sad eyes and reaching for his coat, Sherlock turned and moved into the hall leading to the bedrooms, not wanting to see him leave. He flattened himself against the wall paper, and this time he was alone with the cold, listening to John's slightly off balance steps fade until the door closed with something just under a slam. And then his body slid to the floor and stayed there.

His body was inherently unhappy, cold and abandoned and just a bit heartbroken. 

His mind was floating in a newly built corridor, cropping out everything past John's hands in his hair and the warmth of kisses. He wouldn't delete what came afterwards; he wasn't sure he was capable of it anymore. He could only lock it right at the end of the hallway and try to forget it existed; it was a cold hard door leading back into the real world.

The real world, he decided, was a horrible place. 

He could hardly be blamed for trying to escape it.


End file.
